Set Me Free (11 page)

“
E
verything okay
, Miranda? You seem distracted tonight.”

“I’m sorry, Andy.” I looked up from punching in an order on the computer. “I’ll get it together.”

“I wasn’t reprimanding you,” he said, smiling.

“Of course. I’m sorry.”

Andy quirked a pierced eyebrow at me. “Need a break? I can watch your tables for a minute.”

“No, thanks.” I smiled weakly at him.

I printed out a check for a different table and headed back out onto the floor. I had to stop thinking about Rhys, and Owen. I had to stay focused so I could be good at my job. Now more than ever, it was all I had in the world.

“Miranda.” Bill’s daughter, Emily, who was one of the hostesses, had appeared in front of me. She was a petite girl a few years younger than me, with lots of black eyeliner and two long black braids over her shoulders. In the bar’s eerie blue and green lighting, her pale face was luminous. “Owen Larsen is here to see you.”

My heart contracted painfully. I suddenly, desperately wanted to tell him about Rhys—that I’d been wrong about being safe, that I would never be safe again. Then I remembered, with a pang of shame, the note Owen had left on his pillow this morning.

Maybe he’d been right to take a step back. We’d been moving so fast. We were both so burdened by our own problems.

I turned towards the door, biting my lip. Remnants of daylight fragmented around his worn-in hoodie and his big work boots, leaving his face in shadow. I handed the checkbook to Emily and walked slowly towards him. The restaurant had gone whisper-quiet. Everyone had turned to watch us.

“Hey.” He reached forwards as if he were going to tuck a lock of my hair behind my ear, but he glanced over the top of my head at the people staring at us and dropped his hand to his side.

I swallowed hard. “What are you doing here?”

“I have to talk to you.”

“I’m working…”

His jaw tightened, and I knew I had hurt him. I sighed. “Okay. Let’s go outside.”

I signaled to Emily that I’d be right back and slipped past Owen into the parking lot. He followed me out, letting the door close behind us.

Twilight settled along the horizon in wispy violet strands. A chilly breeze blew in the scent of the ocean. I rubbed my hands over my bare arms, but Owen, as usual, didn’t seem to notice the cold. He looked lost in his own thoughts, his brow furrowed.

“This was a mistake,” he said. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t stop thinking about Rosa:
he said he knew how to hurt me.

“Look, I’m sorry about this morning,” he continued. “It’s—I have to tell you something. You weren’t answering your phone, so I… Obviously, this isn’t a good time.”

“I turned my phone off.” I knew I shouldn’t have. Without it, I couldn’t even begin to keep tabs on what Rhys was doing or thinking. But I couldn’t bear to leave it on.

I was such a coward.

“You look upset.” Owen said, glancing over at me for the first time.

“I—I can’t do this right now.” My voice hitched. “I’m sorry.” I’d been a fool to get involved with someone so soon—to think I could start over, or that I could ever be happy, when Rhys was still such a presence in my life.

His mouth opened, but he didn’t speak. Slowly, all emotion vanished from his face. “‘Do this,’” he echoed. “Do what?”

“Us,” I said. “Not yet. I’m sorry. Last night was great, but I—I need some time to—to deal with some things first, and then we…”

I trailed off, unnerved by his icy expression. In the twilight, his eyes were more black than cobalt blue, like the sea at night.

“I thought… Never mind,” he said, turning away. “I knew it would happen. It doesn’t matter.”

“What doesn’t matter?” I asked, but he was already walking away from me, across the parking lot. “Owen, wait!
What
doesn’t matter?”

But he didn’t wait. He crossed the empty street and disappeared into the forest. I hugged my arms to my chest, shivering.

* * *

F
or the rest
of my shift, I thought about texting Owen. I wanted to sit him down, away from the curious stares of the townies at the Widow’s Walk, and find out what he’d meant to tell me. And, no matter how foolish it made me, I still wanted to tell him about Rhys.

“You’re going to wear out that table,” the busboy said, watching me scrub table seven with disinfectant.

I kept scrubbing and didn’t respond, thinking about the way Owen’s expression had turned to ice. The way he had said:
It doesn’t matter
.

“Everyone else is leaving already.” The busboy leaned on his broom with a cheeky smile.

“I just have some silverware to fold—”

“Emily was bored, so she did yours earlier.”

I spritzed table seven with disinfectant again and went back to scrubbing at a stubborn stain. The bus boy walked off, shaking his head, as Andy came out of the kitchen, shrugging on his bright red parka.

“There you are,” he said. “Heading back to the house?”

“Not yet. I have an errand to run.”

“At eleven at night?”

“Yeah, course.” I forced a smile. “When do you do your errands?”

He laughed. “All right, whatever you say. Oh, by the way,” he added, as he zipped up his coat, “what did Owen want earlier?”

“Nothing,” I said, my heart aching. “I just…forgot something. At his mom’s shop.”

He nodded, but he still looked curious. Then again, Andy always looked curious.

I thought about asking him about Owen—the way everyone here had stared at him, what he might have wanted to tell me, why he’d acted like a jerk even though he could see I was upset—but I couldn’t bear to talk about my love life with my supervisor, even one as cool as Andy. I’d have to ask Kaye later. She was out of town for a couple of days, visiting friends from college in Portland. For now, I had no one I could truly talk to.

So, after Andy left, I did what I’d always done in Florida when I was desperately lonely: I went to the cemetery.

I parked on Church Street. The wrought-iron fence surrounding the graveyard was locked, but since it only came up to my shins, it didn’t slow me down.

Over the fence, the darkness was so thick it was almost tangible. But the silence was what I noticed most. Cities are never silent: there is the distant swell of traffic, the purr of machinery, the hum of streetlights. There were no cars here, not even any insects or birds, just the sound of my footsteps crumpling the frozen grass, and the dull thump of my heartbeat.

I kept walking until I spotted a glimmer of white through the pine boughs. Moonlight seeped down her wings, her hood, the curls surrounding her face and neck, catching on the crystals in the stone until she shimmered like the angel she was.

A fresh bunch of white lilies, tied with a single ribbon, lay in the frozen grass. I stood next to the marble bench in front of her pedestal and looked at them for a long time.

“Your work is so colorful, I can’t imagine you liking white flowers,” I said finally. “You’d think Owen would know that. But I suppose you must’ve had a lot of admirers.”

Her marble eyes were closed, her eyelashes lightly etched into the stone.

“Your artwork is so fearless,” I told her. “Like it never occurred to you that you couldn’t do exactly what you wanted to do.”

I pulled my phone out of my purse, glancing down at its solemn black face.

Behind me, someone coughed—the sound whip-cracked through the silent graveyard. I spun around, my heart racing.

A man stood at the edge of the clearing, holding a pot of carnations. I’d gotten used to knowing everyone in town, but I’d never seen him before. He looked like a football player gone slightly to seed, his body thicker and his hair thinner now, but still handsome enough, despite his annoyed expression.

“You scared me,” I managed, so relieved he wasn’t Rhys I could hardly think.

He shrugged. “Serves you right, treating a graveyard like a goddamn tourist attraction. I don’t know what we have to do to keep you people out of here.”

“I am not a tourist,” I snapped.

“College student then.”

“I
live
here,” I insisted. “I work at the Widow’s Walk.”

He grunted. “Easties.”

“Whatever,” I said irritably. “I have just as much right to be here as you do.” I sighed, annoyed at myself for snapping at someone who was clearly here to grieve. “Let’s start over. I’m Miranda.”

“Jonas Whittaker,” he replied, sounding resigned.

I glanced again at the pot of carnations in his hands. The moonlight shone off something on his left hand—a wedding band. I couldn’t help wondering why a married man would be bringing flowers to Suzanna White in the middle of the night—until suddenly it hit me. “You’re
Jonas Whittaker
. You were her—”

“Boyfriend,” he interrupted grimly. “Before she dumped me for that dirtbag.”

Dirtbag? Did he mean—? “Owen? She broke up with you for him?”

“Yes. She did. Now if you don’t mind…” He gestured at Suzanna’s statue with his pot of carnations.

“Oh. Right. Okay.” I took a few steps towards the trees, until I thought of something else. “Don’t you have one of her self-portraits?”

His frown turned even more guarded. “How do you know about that?”

“Just…something I heard around town.”

He made a dismissive sound. “Shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

“Do you have one, or don’t you?”

“I have her
only
self-portrait,” he said, drawing himself up to his full, considerable height. “I have the only one she ever did. It’s of me and her, together. And it’s not for public viewing,” he added, enunciating each syllable.

We glared at each other. I thought about telling him that I’d seen another one of her self-portraits, and it belonged to the man she had dumped him for. But I looked at the lines on his face, the ring on his hand, and said nothing.

T
he next day
, I went back to the graveyard. This time, I brought my easel and set it up in the frozen grass in front of Suzanna’s statue. In the light from the setting sun, she glowed gold.

I sketched her directly onto the primed canvas, then daubed paints onto my palette, mixing up a deep green. I filled in the space all around her, slowly adding texture to create a background of pine trees. I painted her pedestal next. At its base, I included the pot of carnations Jonas Whittaker had left her last night and, of course, the white lilies.

Her long hooded cloak I kept in white, as if it were still made of stone. But instead of cold ivory curls beneath it, I painted flaming red spirals. Her face I did last, because it was the most important and also the most difficult. I held her self-portrait for Owen in my mind—her tempestuous mouth, her clear hazel eyes—as if I could combine the way she saw herself with the way everyone else saw her.

Eventually, the sky darkened, and it became harder and harder to see her, especially her eyes. I set my paintbrush down, stretching my shoulders and sighing. I wished I could see the self-portrait she had done for Jonas Whittaker. There was still so much I didn’t know.

Still…it wasn’t a bad painting, and I felt a little better—calmer, stronger, more focused.

“Excuse me!”

An old woman hurried towards me through the pine trees.

“I would like to know what you think you’re doing,” she said crisply. “This is not an art studio, young lady!”

She had a British accent, reminding me instantly of my dad. “I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful. Sorry. I’m leaving now, anyway.” I started packing up my paints. “What part of England are you from?”

She blinked at me. “Oh, er, Buckinghamshire.”

“I have a cousin who lives in Aylesbury.”

“Do you,” she said, still looking a bit taken aback. “I grew up in South Buckinghamshire, not far from London.”

“I love London. My dad teaches at university there.”

“London is a bit too busy for me, I’m afraid.” She toyed with the beaded necklaces falling to her waist. “I’ve always said it is a shame the British Museum has to be in the thick of things like that.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I like it. But I’ll do anything for art, obviously,” I added, with a nod towards my easel.

“May I?”

“Sure.” I walked around the bench to make room for her. She crossed the grass, her long dress flowing around her, and stood in front of my painting with her back to me. Her silver hair crowned a column of black.

“Good heavens,” she said.

“What is it?” It wasn’t
that
bad, surely?

“I don’t understand,” she said softly. “Did you know Suzanna White? I have never seen you in town before.”

“I didn’t know her,” I said. “I’ve only been here for a few months, but I hear so many things about her, and…I know it’s not quite right.”

The old woman glanced over her shoulder at me with a sharp raise of her eyebrow. “It’s extraordinary.”

“It…what?” I tugged on my ear as if I’d heard her wrong. “You like it?”

“I’m the curator at the Graveside Gallery,” she said. “I have many of Suzanna’s works. I knew her fairly well, I think. As well, perhaps, as anyone knew her. This painting is almost like…seeing her again. Oh, dear. I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting it, you see.”

She pulled a handkerchief from one long, black sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.

“Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry!” I stepped towards her, wanting to put my arms around her. “I didn’t mean to upset you—”

“No, no, don’t apologize. It’s nice to see her again, in a way, especially in a painting by one of her peers.”

“I’m not her peer!” I said, shocked. “Not that I don’t appreciate the compliment—”

The old woman waved her handkerchief dismissively. “What is your name? Are you a student at Bellisle Art College? One of Sam’s pupils, perhaps?”

I swallowed. “My name is Miranda… I’m a waitress.” At her withering stare, I added, “At the Widow’s Walk? It’s a bar, downtown…?”

“I know what it is,” she snapped. “Good heavens. Why aren’t you in art school?”

I shrugged.

“You should fix that at once.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Mrs. Gautier.”

It took me a second to realize she was introducing herself. I offered her my hand, which she took after a moment of hesitation. Her skin was cool and dry. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Gautier.”

“If you would like to display it when it’s finished, I would very much like to have it at the Graveside.”

My jaw dropped. Display something of mine? Here, in town?

“I would like to put it next to Miss White’s exhibition,” she added, half to herself. “I have just the space for it. Let me know, won’t you?”

“Of course. Thank you.” At least I could be fairly sure that Mrs. Gautier, unlike James Emory, wasn’t offering to display my art just to chat me up. “You have a whole exhibit of her work?”

“Oh, yes, I have a very thorough collection. She gave me quite a few to display while she was alive, and…afterwards, her parents lent me some, as well.”

“Her parents? Do they still live in Fall Island?”

“I’m afraid they moved away after the tragedy.” Mrs. Gautier glanced at my painting again, a wistful frown creasing her forehead. “I am sorry I disturbed you. Do think about what I said.”

“I will. Thank you.” I smiled at her, but something about how she had said “the tragedy” didn’t feel right.

In a flutter of black fabric and clinking necklaces, she began to walk back towards the pine trees.

“Mrs. Gautier?”

She paused, glancing over her shoulder.

“How did Suzanna die?”

“You don’t know?”

I shook my head.

“I hate to discuss it,” she admitted. “It is truly a horrific story.”

“Please.”

Her gaze wobbled to my painting, then to Suzanna’s statue. For a long moment, we stood in silence, across the clearing from each other.

“I’m not sure we’ll ever know what happened that night,” Mrs. Gautier murmured. “But they said she was murdered.”

“Murdered!” The word came out choked. “I had thought—sickness. I thought that was why no one talked about it.”

Mrs. Gautier was shaking her head. “They said her boyfriend murdered her in cold blood. Drowned her, I’m afraid, near East Beach.”

My legs gave way. I dropped onto the bench. Every cell in my body was screaming. “Her boyfriend?”

“That’s right. He still lives here, though he keeps to himself. Her boyfriend, Owen Larsen.”